


A Painting's Worth

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Getting Back Together, M/M, Past Relationship(s), art as seduction, based around the comic tie-in Detective Stories, you don't need to have read that to understand this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-18 20:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11882556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: Nightingale and Oberon have known each other for a very long time.





	A Painting's Worth

**Author's Note:**

> Based around the second story in the tie-in comic "Detective Stories". You don't need to have read it to get what's going on here. For extra details see the notes at the end.

**Then**

Thomas Nightingale hesitated outside the room. This was his second attempt at attending this meeting and he was determined that he wouldn't turn away again. And yet.

“I don't bite, unless you want me to.”

Nightingale looked up into soft brown eyes and the most handsome face he'd seen in years. He found himself flushing, like a man in the first blooms of life, which he certainly was not.

“Oberon,” he said, nodding politely.

“Nightingale,” Oberon replied, just as deferentially, though with a hint of a smile. “You're going to join us this time?”

Nightingale should have known that Oberon would have known about that. “I'm sorry,” he said, “I...”

“You don't need to apologise, wizard. Just come inside.”

So he did.

**Now**

“I haven't been here in some time,” Nightingale said.

He looked around the room with some interest. There were easels lined up ready for that evening's life drawing class, chaise longues and chairs positioned in the middle of the room and by the door a stack of art supplies for sale for those who didn't bring their own.

“Me either,” I said. “Not since that thing at Apsley House.”

Nightingale hummed, remembering as I was that I'd been with Lesley the last time I was here.

That time, as this, we were waiting to talk to Oberon. The room was in the Society of Friends meeting house just off St Martin's Lane and as with every Thursday evening throughout the year it was geared up for the regular Holborn and Covent Garden Life Drawing Class.

“Wait,” I said, “you weren't with us then.”

Nightingale hummed again and peered down to look at one of the art pieces pinned to the wall.

“So – you've been here before?”

Nightingale stood up but didn't turn to face me. “Once or twice”.

**Then**

Nightingale knew that he couldn't just sit and listen in the session, as much as he might have wished to do so. Too many people knew who he was and it was only because of Oberon that several hadn't walked out. So, hesitatingly, because the details were both still too raw and too confused, he described some of the horrors he had seen during the war.

**Now**

“Did you – have you -” I stopped. It really wasn't my business, probably. And I was certain that if we'd consulted him about it the last time we were there he would have told us about Oberon's counselling sessions, it was just that the investigation had moved so fast near the end and he'd been busy with other things, that we actually didn't properly debrief till it was practically all over.

The fact that he hadn't mentioned it after he'd read our reports was probably not any of my business either.

Nightingale, who sometimes follows my train of thought when I haven't said anything better than when I do, turned towards me and nodded. “Yes, well, I wasn't sure it was relevant then. I didn't want to burden you or Lesley with my old war stories.”

He said it lightly, as if I didn't know full well that sometimes, late at night, he'd find himself in the library reading until the sun came up because sleep just wouldn't come.

We never spoke about it but I'd found him there too many times not to have some idea of what was going on.

We were interrupted before either of us stepped on the path of emotional intimacy by Oberon entering the room, his shirt off for some inexplicable reason.

“Thomas, Peter, sorry for keeping you.”

“Oberon,” Nightingale said in greeting. “Thank you for making the time to see us.”

In the ordinary course of events I'd say that Nightingale's eyes lingered on the muscles on Oberon's chest a little longer than was strictly necessary, but since I found myself staring at the way he padded across the room too, I figured it was just the natural way our policing instincts worked and tried hard to forget about it.

“See anything you like?” Oberon asked Nightingale who – I swear to god – actually looked flustered.

“I'm sorry -” he started to say before Oberon interrupted him.

“The paintings you were looking at,” he said, “they're all for sale. Half of the money goes towards the local homeless shelter.”

“Ah, well, in that case,” Nightingale said and turned back to the paintings he was looking at.

I was starting to feel a bit like a third wheel, especially as Nightingale had to bend down to see some of the paintings and Oberon's gaze was most definitely taking in the curve of his arse.

“Okay, so we, um, had a few questions about someone in the life drawing class,” I said, taking out my notebook and pen and trying not to let my mind acknowledge the connections it had already made.

Oberon turned to me with a very knowing expression and I felt my face heating up a little. I did not want to think about Nightingale like that. I could see, objectively, that he was an attractive man but the idea of him with anyone was, well...okay, Oberon and Nightingale would be kind of hot in a...oh god.

“If we could just concentrate on the matter at hand,” I said, realising I'd given myself away a little too much to be healthy.

Oberon just smiled. “Please, Peter, I'm all ears.”

**Then**

Nightingale had hoped he might feel better after his session, but he still felt as numb as he had before. Still, it hadn't gone badly on the whole and, during the obligatory coffee at the end, he found himself making small talk with a few people.

“Not as bad as you thought, was it?” Oberon whispered into Nightingale's ear. Nightingale shivered and had to close his eyes to get himself under control. It wasn't seducere, exactly, but he could _feel_ Oberon's power, slowly running up and down his skin.

“Do you even know you're doing that?” Nightingale asked once he'd convinced his heart to calm down.

“Come to the drawing class next week and I promise I'll rein it in.”

Nightingale turned towards him. “I don't draw.”

Oberon just raised an eyebrow.

“I haven't in years...”

“Do you have any other hobbies that would get in the way of this?” Oberon asked.

Nightingale gave in to the inevitable. Because he had actually missed doing something creative, now that the memorial at Casterbook didn't need such constant work, and it wasn't as if the Met was keeping him particularly busy.

And it had nothing to do with the way Oberon had asked.

**Now**

Oberon sat opposite me, still with his shirt off, which was only low level distracting, and let me quiz him about a nominal who was proving a little hard to pin down. Neither Nightingale or I thought he was any real threat, but we had to rule him in or out one way or the other.

“I can arrange for you to question him tomorrow, if that would suit?” Oberon said.

I looked over at Nightingale who nodded his agreement.

“Great,” I replied. “Thank you.”

“Always a pleasure,” Oberon said, and he definitely wasn't talking about me.

Nightingale coughed awkwardly. “I would like to buy this painting, if I may?” he asked.

Oberon got up to see which painting he'd chosen and I followed along too, because some days I really can't stop myself.

At first I thought it was an odd choice but then I looked closer and saw the details of the crashing waves across the cliffs, the way the water seemed to actually move across the canvas and then, as you looked closer, the reflection of the moon was actually a figure just under the waves, reining the storm in, in total control of their environment. You could stare at it for hours, drown in it, if you wanted.

“It's one of yours, isn't it?” Nightingale asked, reverently touching a gentle finger to it.

Oberon nodded. “You've always had a good eye, Thomas,” he said.

The way Nightingale's name tripped off his tongue felt a lot dirtier than it had any right to. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife, and I had to really concentrate on the naked Beverley I keep in my mind's eye to stop my body from reacting because I did not need to ever get myself in that head space.

“Perhaps you ought to wrap it up for me?” Nightingale suggested.

Oberon winked, actually winked, at him and then grinned at me before taking the painting off the wall and leaving the room.

“So,” I said. “You two.”

Nightingale smiled to himself, a smile I'd never seen before and one which made him look even younger, if such a thing was possible.

“A long time ago,” he said, finally. “He was a big help to me when I needed it most.”

“I'm glad,” I said, before I second guessed myself, and was rewarded by a soft smile of my own.

“We still have a lot of work to do,” Nightingale said, obviously changing the subject, which was just as well because we were getting dangerously close to having a moment.

“I'll check in with Seawoll and see what else needs to be done,” I said, just as Oberon returned with the painting securely wrapped up. “I'll meet you downstairs.”

Nightingale nodded but he wasn't really paying any attention to me.

**Then**

Nightingale found the art of putting charcoal to canvas so soothing that he barely noticed as first one then another of his fellow artists left the room until it was just him and a gloriously naked Oberon, posing as he had done for the last hour reclined back on the chaise longue.

Finally Nightingale came back to the present and took a step back.

“May I see?” Oberon asked, quietly, and Nightingale nodded.

Oberon slowly got up and wrapped a red silk gown around himself before padding quietly to Nightingale's side.

“You have real talent,” Oberon said, after more than a minute's close scrutiny.

“My oldest sister was the one with the real artistic talent,” Nightingale said.

“I'm sorry I won't get the chance to meet her,” Oberon said.

Nightingale nodded a little absently and Oberon placed a hand on the small of his back. Nightingale found himself leaning back a little into the warmth.

“You're cold,” Oberon whispered, his breath warming up the back of Nightingale's neck.

“I should go,” Nightingale said, after a beat too long.

“If that's what you want,” Oberon replied, stepping away.

Nightingale missed his touch but couldn't let the words out to say as much. “Thank you,” he said instead.

“You'll come back next week?”

“I may be busy,” Nightingale replied, already trying to think of excuses.

“No you won't,” Oberon replied, and then left to get dressed.

Nightingale stood in that room alone for far longer than he'd ever admit. And then he went home.

**Now**

When Nightingale came out he looked the same as usual, though it was hard to check thoroughly as I was pretending to read my emails on my phone while leaning against the Jag. He moved around me to put the painting in the back seat.

“Do we need to talk about this?” he asked but I was already shaking my head before the words were out of his mouth.

“Nope, no, no, no...no.”

Nightingale gifted me with one of those looks he and my mother share, that they know what I'm doing but they're going to let it pass. For the moment.

“Did Seawoll have anything interesting to say?”

“Actually, yes,” I replied. And quickly filled Nightingale in as we got back into the car and headed for the Folly.

I'd like to say keeping busy helped me stop wondering about Nightingale and Oberon, but lying to myself just keeps on getting harder.

**Then**

The second drawing class went the same way as the first, and the third, and the fourth, until Nightingale somehow found himself with a regular occupation outside of the Folly and a group of people who greeted him with a smile and invited him out for a drink and shared their stories and made the loneliness recede, just a little bit.

The situation with Oberon remained the same as well. He came out for a drink after the session the least of all of them and Nightingale realised some months in it was because Oberon didn't want him to feel uncomfortable; he was giving Nightingale a hobby and friends and something he'd kept long buried started to thaw.

**Now**

“Nightingale and Oberon?” Beverley asked, running a hand over my hair. “Are you sure you don't have a head injury you haven't told me about?”

I swatted her hand away and finished plating up dinner. “I'm serious. There was definitely a – something – going on. Have there ever been any rumours or anything?”

Beverley studied me closely before shaking her head. “Nope. I mean, I guess it makes sense.”

I blinked. “It does?”

“Well, they're both old, both soldiers, both immortal – or whatever Nightingale is passing as. And Oberon and Effra have always had an open marriage. I'm impressed at Nightingale's taste actually, I mean Oberon is....”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, as Beverley laughed at me and then ran her bare foot up my leg.

“Don't worry, babe, I've only got eyes for you.”

“Eat your dinner,” I said, but I was smiling too, glad to have a moment to unwind. We'd hardly seen each other this past week, what with one thing and another, and I'd missed this, just being able to sit and eat dinner in her kitchen.

“Are you bothered?” Beverley asked, choosing the moment when I had a mouthful of curry and had no choice but to think about the question before I answered. She'd make a scary copper.

“No,” I said when I could. “He shouldn't stay cooped up in the Folly all the time. Even if Oberon...” I trailed off then and concentrated on my dinner.

“Even if Oberon...?” Beverley prompted.

“Even if Oberon thinks he's the most beautiful man alive,” I replied, feeling foolish.

Beverley just laughed at me.

**Then**

Nightingale wasn't sure whether his technique was getting better or not, but he'd come to the conclusion that it didn't really matter. He was enjoying himself and finding something different which he could talk to Molly about was proving a useful balm to the both of them.

And he could admit, if only to himself, that he was beginning to look forward to Oberon's company.

**Now**

Nightingale was on the phone when I got back to the Folly the next day and when he heard me come in there was a definite tenseness in his shoulders; from that I had a fairly good idea who he was talking to.

Since I didn't want to interrupt I headed to the kitchen on the lookout for caffeine and for a catch-up with Molly. She was chopping vegetables and I was on my second cup of coffee when Nightingale joined us.

Molly stopped chopping and turned towards him, a sure sign she was as eager to hear what was going on as I was. Nightingale sighed good naturedly at the both of us and started to make himself a drink.

“We're going for dinner tomorrow night,” he said. “And now if we could please get some work done?”

Molly grinned, teeth on full show, and then got back to her knife work. I tried to keep my own expression as neutral as possible.

“Sahra thinks she's got a good idea about how to flush out the bookseller.”

“All right,” Nightingale said, looking at me suspiciously, like he half-expected me to do something like acknowledge the existence of his private life. “Let's go over the plan in the coach house.”

**Then**

After six months of working on his art Nightingale was beginning to feel more like himself, more like the person he'd been before Ettersberg. He attended a few of Oberon's sessions for other soldiers, but he found it too hard to try and remember what he could and could not say, and lying by omission wouldn't help him any more than it would help them, besides, the art was something he could do late at night when he couldn't sleep and now he always kept some sketchbooks and pencils by his bed. Molly seemed to approve.

“Dinner?” Oberon asked, moving behind Nightingale to get a better look at his canvas. Today the model was a heavily pregnant woman, and Nightingale had concentrated on her face, the soft upturn of her lips as she smiled to herself, the unmistakable warmth in her eyes.

Nightingale turned a little to reply, only to find Oberon much closer than he'd been expecting. He found he didn't mind.

“Dinner would be lovely,” he agreed and almost laughed at Oberon's pleased surprise.

“I think this one is your best yet,” he murmured, and then moved on to the next artist.

Nightingale thought he might even agree with him.

**Now**

“Do you ever think about how much London has changed?” Oberon asked Nightingale.

“Londoners still seem as intent as they ever did to kill each other,” Nightingale replied. “I'll liaise with Seawoll, see if you can get any sense out of the wife.”

This last was directed at me and I headed off to do his bidding, deliberately moving Mrs Hampton out of the way so I couldn't accidentally hear what Nightingale was saying to Oberon.

I'd had no choice but to call him away from his dinner date with Oberon – the situation had escalated enough that Thames Water were going to be having some very serious words with us about the wilful destruction of property – and although I wasn't feeling guilty (two people were alive and well because Nightingale had arrived in the nick of time) I still hoped that I hadn't mucked things up for them.

Judging by the intense staring, I'd say they were pretty good on that front.

**Then**

Nightingale gasped as Oberon pushed him up against the wall, strong hands manhandling him, pulling down trousers and lifting him up just enough so that his feet were almost competely off the floor.

“Yes?” Oberon asked, panting flatteringly hard.

“Yes,” Nightingale gasped, pulling Oberon into a fierce kiss. They'd barely made it back from dinner and every one of Nightingale's nerve endings felt like it was on fire.

Oberon groaned, positioned himself and pushed inside Nightingale, meeting only a token resistance as Nightingale opened himself up, his head falling back against the wall, trying and failing to remember when sex had felt this good, when he'd last given himself over so completely to another being.

“Fuck, Thomas,” Oberon growled, and Nightingale shivered; Oberon's voice alone was enough to get him hard on any given day.

“Yes, please, move,” Nightingale almost begged and Oberon kissed him quiet before starting to move, one long thrust followed by several shallow thrusts until Nightingale was incoherent with pleasure, his hands scratching lightly down Oberon's back, his mouth and tongue and teeth finding Oberon's neck and his chin and his mouth until there were no words, just shared breath until Oberon set Nightingale's world on fire and he no longer knew where one began and the other ended.

**Now**

“We've rearranged for next week,” Nightingale told me. I was leaning up against the wall of St Paul's writing up my notes and hadn't even noticed him approaching

“I didn't ask,” I said, and then winced at how that sounded. “I mean I don't care.” Yeah, that wasn't any better. “What I mean, I...”

I trailed off when I realised Nightingale was laughing at me, that soft laugh I'd first heard in the hospital all those years ago, though it was considerably less like a death rattle these days.

“I appreciate your – discretion,” Nightingale said.

“Can I ask a question?” I asked, and I could see him restrain himself before he pointed out I just had. “How did it end, last time?”

Nightingale was silent for long enough that I started to think I'd made a mistake in asking but then he began to speak.

“Oberon was considerably more comfortable in his own skin than I was. He'd made – peace – I suppose, with what he was and what he is, and had found ways of channelling that into helping others.” He sighed. “I was still struggling with everything then. I still am, of course, but...” He moved to lean on the wall next to me and gently bumped our shoulders together. “I feel a part of the world again, which is in no small part due to you.” We both looked over to where Oberon was standing, talking to Sahra. “I wasn't ready to see where this could lead then.”

“And now you are?”

“I am,” he said, and sounded as sure as he usually did. Given that he's sounded confident about a lot of things that he'd actually been very much not sure about, I wasn't sure how much faith I should put into that, but there was no denying they had chemistry, and they were both well above the age where anyone needed to worry about them.

“All right,” he agreed, as if I'd said all of that out loud, “I think I'm probably ready, but I won't know until I try, will I?”

“There's probably worse people to try with,” I agreed. “If you like that sort of thing.”

Nightingale smiled. “Come on then, our night's work isn't over just yet. We have an arrest to make.”

“Sir,” I agreed and called Sahra over. She peeled herself away from Oberon who waved his goodbyes to us and disappeared into the shadows, Nightingale's gaze following him the whole way.

Sahra and I absolutely didn't share a knowing smile and we certainly didn't arrange it so Oberon was waiting at Belgravia nick with breakfast by the time we brought our suspect back.

Nightingale thanked us anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Detective Stories focuses on Peter discussing a series of past cases to put forward as evidence he's ready to become a DC. #2 focuses on a case where we learn Oberon is indeed a very old soldier, he runs a support group for other old soldiers (which I speculate Nightingale attended) and that Oberon poses for/teaches an art/life drawing class. A class which does actually exist in that building.


End file.
